Denethor looked up, his grey eyes hard and steely in the dim light. “You come at last, Captain Faramir.”
He winced, but managed to keep a steady eye on his father’s face.
“I received your message and left as soon as I can.” The missive left no room for negotiation – even if Faramir had not had any rest for the past few days because of the numerous orc incursions around Ithillien.
Without a word, Denethor threw a piece of parchment at him. Surprised, Faramir barely had time to catch it. Denethor said nothing as Faramir cautiously unrolled the scroll. When he finished reading its contents, Faramir met his father’s eyes, realising finally what Denethor summoned him for.
“Explain yourself.”
Denethor’s voice rang in the long, cavernous chamber.
Faramir could not find his voice. Instead, he looked down at his feet, a habit he could not seem to shake from childhood – when it came to his father.
When Denethor finally spoke, his voice was low and hard. “You went against my orders; you left Ithillien, your station, to ride to the Pelennor? What foolery is this?!”
Silence, then: “If you dare not speak the truth, at least meet my eyes – if you call yourself my son.”
Feeling as if he had been stabbed, Faramir met his father’s eyes as firmly as he could. “Father, we received word that a band of orcs will raid one of the outlying villages.”
“From whom?” Denethor interrupted before he could continue.
Faramir was at a loss for words – it was a dream that told him, but how could his father understand?
“A reliable source, my Lord.”
Denethor laughed shortly. “So reliable that you deign not to inform the Steward of the matter?” he asked cuttingly.
“Father-“
Denethor stood up and walked away from him. For a long, stifling moment, Denethor ignored his youngest son before turning back to him. “It is luck that you did encounter orcs there, Faramir. For that I will spare you since you lost three men that day.”
Faramir looked away, remembering the men that had fallen.
Again, a moment of long silence stretched mercilessly between them.
“What example you must set your men, Faramir,” his father growled as he turned to look at him, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Ever have you been weak-willed, ruling men by your heart rather than your will. For that you are a weak soldier, and ever will you be until one day, I shall remove you. Is that what you want, Captain?”
“No,” he breathed.
Denethor laughed shortly as he made his way towards him. “It is fortunate that I cannot spare your services. Men of Gondor are dwindling in number as the war grows fierce. But tell me this: will you go against your brother when he becomes Steward?”
“Gondor to Faramir!”
The shout startled him and he looked away from his father to see who had shouted.
Instantly the world shifted and the overwhelming confines of his father’s study melted into the chaos of a battlefield.
And then the pain returned to him. And slowly his senses returned – he heard men screaming around him, and the ground shaking from the thudding of hooves. The pain shot through his body again and Faramir cried out from it. He tasted the bitter taste of blood in his mouth.
“Father …” he moaned, wondering what had happened to Denethor. Was he trapped here too?
“Protect the Captain!”
Mablung? Was that his voice? Were they not supposed to be with Boromir?
Tentatively, fighting against the excruciating pain in his side, he opened his eyes.
And saw only confusion. Booted feet scuffling in the bloody dirt, men and orcs falling around him. Blood – red and black – splashing around him.
“Men, to the right! To Captain Faramir!”
He recognised the voice. Hope surged in his chest and he shakily tried to lift himself up with an elbow, but he was too weak and barely raised himself before he fell.
“Boromir,” he gasped. He could not see him amidst the terrible confusion. Had he already fallen? Desperate, he cried out his name, but could only manage a gasp. Tiredly, he sank to the ground, breathing heavily from weakness and pain.
“Faramir!” Boromir was suddenly by his side, as if the Valar heard his plea and granted his wish. He stretched his hand towards his brother gladly, hoping that it was not a phantom he was seeing.
* * *
Boromir took his brother’s bloody hand and as he desperately made sure that no orc was around to harm Faramir, Faramir gave him a weak smile. With a shaking hand, Boromir brushed a hand down Faramir’s blood-stained cheek.
“I am here, brother,” he whispered. Faramir squeezed his hand feebly, love shining in his blue eyes.
Boromir vaguely sensed that some of the men – rangers and his men – had formed a protective circle around them. He ignored them as best as he could as he bent close to his brother and whispered into his ear: “Faramir! You will be safe”
His brother nodded weakly. Boromir trembled as he tentatively removed his brother’s left hand from the wound at his side.
“By the Valar,” he whispered when he saw the raw, gaping wound. Tears blurred his vision as he placed a hand on the seeping wound. Faramir reacted then, gasping in pain. His lashes fluttered and his breath came in pained gasps. After a few agonising moments, Faramir managed to control the pain he felt and met his eyes determinedly.
“Boromir. I knew you would come. I had hoped … it was wrong of me … but I had hoped,” Faramir whispered brokenly, tears staining his soot-stained cheeks.
“I am here, brother. And it was not wrong of you,” he forced himself to smile, but his heart clenched at the feel of Faramir’s blood trickling between his fingers. Faramir, meanwhile, gave him a glad smile and then rested his head against Boromir’s bent knee. Faramir’s hand suddenly went limp in his grip.
Horrified, Boromir shook his brother as gently as he could.
“Do not sleep, brother!” he pleaded, but it was too late – his brother had lost consciousness.
“My Lord!” Mablung was suddenly by his side. He paled when he saw Faramir, but quickly gathered himself, gripping Boromir’s shoulder. “My Lord, we must bring Captain Faramir to safety. We can’t hold them back much longer. We have to move him now.”
Boromir cast a look at Faramir’s pale face and without wasting another moment, he lifted Faramir in his arms. Faramir groaned weakly from the sudden movement, and Boromir cursed himself for his clumsiness.
Mablung brought Boromir’s horse to him. “Go, my Lord. And may the Valar be with you.”
“No. You will carry him to safety. I will hold them back.”
Mablung shook his head. “No, my Lord. The Captain needs you and … you are a better rider than I.” With that, Mablung shoved Boromir towards the horse and together, they placed Faramir on the horse. With a quick movement, Boromir was on the horse.
He lifted his eyes briefly to see the madness of the battlefield, and saw the hopelessness of the battle before him. Even with his forces, the men were outnumbered.
Boromir met Mablung’s eyes again and both understood the grave situation before them.
“Go, my Lord!” Mablung urged as readied an arrow in his bow.
Boromir nodded brusquely and spurred the horse towards the hill where he knew the rangers were waiting. But when he was at the foot of the hill, he suddenly heard the welcome sound of a Gondorian horn.
And the cry of many men.
Exultantly, he spurred his horse in the direction of the sound.
The remaining Tower Guards!
He saw men clad in the green finery of the Tower guards – about fifty strong – atop white horses galloping towards the melee. He grinned fiercely at the sight of their drawn swords; already his blood was lusting to join them – to rid the world of orcs once again.
Their father had come to their aid!
Suddenly, Faramir stirred in his arms. His head lolled weakly on Boromir’s shoulder as he moaned feebly.
“Faramir,” he whispered, brushing the hair that covered his brother’s face away.
The blue eyes fluttered open and shifted to look at Boromir, pain shimmering in their depths.
“The Tower Guards have come, brother. Endh Aes will be safe,” Boromir murmured, holding his brother close.
Faramir struggled to say something, but his voice was so weak Boromir could barely make out the words.
“No. Do not tire yourself so, Faramir. You need to save your strength,” he whispered. So much blood. Even now he could feel the blood dripping from the wound. So much blood!
Faramir shook his head and forced a pale shadow of a smile. “No … no regrets,” he gasped. A shaking hand reached out for Boromir’s.
Boromir took it.
“I’m glad … “ a wave of pain caused Faramir to fight for his breath. He coughed fitfully and Boromir clutched his brother and clasped his hand tighter.
“Shh. Do not speak. Rest … do not tire yourself!” he did not know what to ask of his brother – only not to go into the unforgiving dark where he cannot follow.
Tears blurred his vision but he forced himself not to give in to the emotion and stilled the torment in his heart. Faramir needed him to be strong at this moment.
Faramir’s expression became anguished. “I was so afraid that we would part in bitterness.” he whispered weakly, his face twisting in grief. “I’m sorry ... I did not mean to grieve you.”
And Boromir’s tears fell then. He squeezed his eyes shut. How he had failed his brother! And yet, Faramir could only think of him, Boromir, who left him at his hour of need to face hopeless odds alone.
“I’m not grieved, Faramir. I’m ever proud of you!” he said forcefully.
Tears came into Faramir’s eyes at his words. They rolled down his cheeks, leaving a trail down his soot-stained cheeks. He made an effort to speak, but he had lost far too much strength … He sighed, and then his eyes slowly closed.
“Faramir?” Boromir cried out in horror when Faramir went limp in his arms. For a moment, terror nearly robbed him of his senses, but he forced his wits together and anxiously felt for his brother’s pulse. His relief was great when he found it beating faintly at his neck.
He needs a healer. Quickly. Boromir settled Faramir more surely in his arms and lifted the reins and spurred the horse up the hill.